


happy tonight

by VegaOfTheLyre



Category: Superman (Comics)
Genre: Christmas, F/M, damn you DC, unabashed fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:08:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VegaOfTheLyre/pseuds/VegaOfTheLyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Robots, Smallville,” Lois reminds Clark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	happy tonight

“ _Robots_ , Smallville,” Lois reminds Clark.  
  
He is kneeling on the floor, digging through bags stuffed full of the crumpled paper and confettied shreddings of the entire collected Daily Planet staff. “Yeah,” he says. “So you’ve told me.” He rocks back on his heels and looks up at Lois, pushing his glasses up on his nose. She is sitting perched atop an overturned tin trash can, her feet swinging, Jimmy’s stolen camera hanging from around her neck as she hums along to _Winter Wonderland_. In the bullpen several floors above them the Christmas party is in full swing, and everyone in the building but them is well on their way to completely plastered. Lois beams down at him, a half-empty glass of some uncharacteristically lurid cocktail tapping between her fingers, and he sighs and pulls out another handful of abandoned documents, resigned to his fate.  
  
Lois continues to hold court from atop her throne, absently tugging down the skirt of her red dress a titch where it threatens to ride up. “Robots,” she says, headlines and bylines swimming in her eyes as she raises her glass heavenward in a toast. “A robot _army_. A whole warehouse full of LexCorp-designed killer robots with laser-eyes and and drill-fingers and we, my friend, are going to _scoop_ that bastard Anderson, we are going to get him _back_ for that trick he pulled on us with the sewers and the alligator thing...”  
  
Clark knows that the cocktail she’s clutching is the only thing she’s had to drink this evening--Cat pressed it on her as they slinked their way down to maintenance, effusive with false holiday cheer in a not-so-subtle attempt to intercept whatever scheme the intrepid team of Kent and Lane (“Lane and _Kent_ , Clark”) were stewing over this time. But Clark’s seen Lois when she’s had too much, and Lois drunk on either alcohol or the story is not that different from Lois sober: a bit more giddy and expansive, but sharp and hungry for the truth as ever.  
  
Lois is still talking. “Listen, between the snow and the holidays I figure, the city’s quiet, security’ll be lax, we’ll sneak in, take a few pictures, maybe steal a robot or two as evidence, nothing fancy, we’ll be there and back in half an hour, have this thing ready for print by midnight.” She frowns into her glass. “Transport. Who on staff has a car? Something with a nice big trunk. A robot-sized trunk. Marilyn’s holding onto everyone’s keys for the party, right? I’ll distract her, you go in her desk. Great plan. Elegant in its simplicity.”  
  
“Lois, I am more than happy to bend the rules in our pursuit for journalistic justice, but I’d prefer to draw the line somewhere before grand theft auto,” Clark says.  
  
Lois rolls her eyes. “Or _whatever_. Maybe we’ll just lift a few spare parts, some plans, whatever’s lying around the factory that we can carry out. Something tangible for Perry, okay? Because--”  She flaps a hand and then, noticing that Clark has slowed in his efforts, snaps her fingers and points imperiously at the mountain of paper. “Address, Clark! What do I keep you around for if you can’t dig up a simple--”  
  
“Oh, look,” Clark interrupts, brandishing the offending note like a white flag of surrender as he gets to his feet. “I found it!” Found it three hours ago, actually, when Anderson balled it up and lobbed it in the trash after Perry, but he won’t tell Lois that.  
  
Lois crows with triumph. She hops off her trash can and downs the rest of her drink, tugging upward at Clark's shirt collar at the same time. “Well, what the hell are we waiting for?” She brushes down his shoulders absently as he gets to his feet; her hands are tiny against his broad bulk, and for a brief moment he wants to catch those hands, curl her fingers with their bitten-down nails against his chest.  
  
And then she is pushing him towards the door, half-laughing in her impatience. “God, Kent,” she says, swinging her coat on, shaking her head at their good luck. “Isn’t this the best Christmas present ever?”  
  
He was just thinking the same thing. But all he says is “Sure, Lois,” digging her gloves out of his pocket. He can’t stop smiling.


End file.
